


Between Two Worlds

by Shadow_Chaser



Series: Letters Home [7]
Category: Assassin's Creed, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ben is a father to his men, Ben is a trouble magnet, Expansion into Ben's past before the war (using AC3 and TURN), Follows "Letters Into the Past II" directly, Gen, Post-Episode: s02e08 Providence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-10-21
Packaged: 2018-04-24 01:51:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4900957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadow_Chaser/pseuds/Shadow_Chaser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On his way back from the troop inspection in Boston, Ben stops by his father's house in Wethersfield.  However, not all is well as assassins lurk in the shadows and Ben discovers that one does not need to be part of the Brotherhood to bring the Templars' wrath down upon him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Ben was amazed that in the dead of winter, even with frost on the ground, there was still the faint odor of onions hanging in the air. But what greeted him was not an onion field, but rather the sight of the farm he knew grew the best apples in the colony of Connecticut. It brought a smile to his face as he heeled his horse from a light canter into a trot. He heard the rest of his men followed his stead.

“Daniel, Samuel, you're free to leave for your families for the rest of the day. I do not expect you to return until the day after tomorrow. We leave for camp at noon sharp,” he gestured with a hand in the air back towards the men that followed him.

“Thank you sir,” the two called behind him. He watched with a small smile on his face as the two wheeled their horses to turn as they passed a fork after the apple farm. The fork would eventually lead to nearby Farmington, where the two boys were from.

He could sense the growing excitement of the rest of his men behind him as they realized that they too would get at least a day of leave to see to their families and loved ones. But the discipline and professionalism he had drilled into them long ago stayed their overt anticipation as they rode further into town. Ben had taken soldiers he specifically knew were from the Wethersfield and Hartford region of Connecticut – even though the 2nd Continential Light Dragoons consisted of several of the nearby Colonies' infantry troops. He had specifically chosen at least one of his two light cavalry units from Connecticut and it was six of these Connecticut men who had accompanied him.

The rest of the 2nd was mostly deployed at Valley Forge, but there were a couple manning the scouting camps along the Connecticut coast. They were ostensibly to watch for any British activity throughout Long Island Sound; but also to guard against raiding parties who would attempt to burn the ports of Norwalk, Westport, Fairfield, Stratford, and New Haven down. He knew that part of his unit was deployed to the edges of Rhode Island – Washington having wanted a small force to keep an eye on French naval reinforcements due to land there in a few months, but there were rumblings of heavy British activity there, so Ben hoped that, that branch of his 2nd Continentals was holding up all right. His orders had been to examine troop readiness in Boston and so he had done so with an eye towards sending those troops to Rhode Island in the near future.

He knew that even though he was not in Washington's favor at the moment, he hoped that with his returning report on troop readiness it would at least garner some of the lost favor by helping his Commander-in-Chief. He did not know what plans Washington had for the Boston-based troops, but had accepted his assignment with some grace – after the initial attempt to get a little bit drunk with Caleb's bottle to soothe the hurt he felt when Washington told him that he was sending him north – and had come to accept it since his inspection that maybe he had really blundered badly in his confidence and handling of his spies.

He was also worried for Caleb and wondered if the last he had seen of his friend was at Morristown with the Turtle. The risks were high of Sackett's contraption sinking into the bottom of York City harbor and while Ben was used to his friend's hair-brained schemes, he still could not help but wonder if he had died in his attempt to free Abe from Sugar Hill prison. Maybe he should have been firmer in stopping Caleb – letting him and Abe run almost roughshod over his attempts at gathering intelligence through his spy network. Maybe Washington was right; he could not control his men effectively.

The whicker of his horse broke Ben out of his thoughts as he pushed it away and focused on his surroundings as they trotted into Wethersfield's main square.

It was already bustling with the afternoon activity, traders, mills, and shops busy with customers or haggling over prices, the bright winter's sun making it seem a lot warmer than it actually was. He could see a lot of them staring up in surprise as they rode into town before some of them cheered at their familiar presence. Ben nodded vague greetings to those who waved at them before he heeled his horse and stopped at the well situated next to one of the two more popular taverns in town. Dismounting, he turned to his men who were also getting situated, unable to hide their wide smiles at the anticipation of leave.

“Go to your families. We'll meet back here at noon sharp the day after tomorrow,” he said before they tipped their plumed hats at him and he returned the gesture. Not even a second later, one of them gave a wild cheering shout and all but dragged his horse by the bridle as he headed down another road that led into the smaller farmland plots of the town.

Ben shook his head at the man's antics as did two of his fellow light cavalrymen. The third one only shrugged and shouldered his bags before heading to the tavern itself. “John,” he called out to the man who turned, a wry smile on his lips, “don't get too drunk on the first night.”

“Sir,” John only grinned in return before walking away and Ben could hear the muffled snickers of the other two.

They all knew that John Davenport was the owner of this particular tavern itself and had been one of the 2nd's first volunteers, not even bothering with a bounty. He and Ben had become acquaintances during his three years as superintendent of the schools here in Wethersfield before the 2nd Continentals had been raised. However, unlike Ben, John did not have enough money to purchase a Lieutenant's or even an Ensign's commission and so had become one of the enlisted men. While their interactions had been cordial as was becoming between officers and enlisted men, Ben had seen to it that he had been regularly promoted – not only because he was his friend, but also because John was one of the unit's best horsemen. He knew that most dragoons had horsemen who were only officers, but Ben also knew that this was a war that had to be fought man by man and so had a handful of his dragoons as enlisted men. This also made it a lot easier for the enlisted men to command the infantry units whenever in battle instead of sacrificing one of his officers to put forth formations and the like.

“Henry, Liam, please give my salutations to your families. Henry, I'm sure your father will probably want to speak to me as always. He can find me at my father's lodgings,” he said and saw the two others nod before taking their leave.

Liam followed Alexander's path down to the smaller plots of farmland, but instead of dragging his horse like Alexander did in his excitement, he took it at a steady pace. Liam Griffith and Alexander Mayfield were neighbors to whom Ben had taught for three years before they had joined when the muster had been called in Wethersfield. Henry had been enrolled at Harvard College for a year before he had come home to join the 2nd Continentals. Ben had been friendly with the young man's father who was one of the local lawyers who had two practices, one in Wethersfield, the other in Hartford.

Daniel and Samuel were farmers, though Samuel had been apprenticed to a blacksmith before he had answered the muster call. Farmington was a relatively small community that was mostly comprised of its namesake. Their export was mainly trade of crops and meat to feed Hartford, Wethersfield, and surrounding towns as well as sending convoys down river to the coast for further trade. There were several others who were native to the town as well as the area, but they were part of the force that Ben had sent out towards Rhode Island. A few others served with Washington directly as part of his personal guards while others served in a variety of other capacities.

Seeing that his men were well on their way to reuniting with their families and loved ones, he removed his helm, securing it on his saddle before taking his horse by the reigns and headed towards the direction of the schoolhouse. It was situated near the First Church of Christ, even though the schoolhouse existed long before the church had been built seventeen years prior. It was due to the influx and expansion of settlers after the French and Indian War, the schoolhouse also rebuilt for more students. It was also one of the reasons why Ben had stayed in Connecticut to teach and supervise the growing number of young minds after he had graduated Yale.

It had been a couple of years since he had properly returned to Wethersfield – he had not accompanied his father in his journey to the town after rescuing him from Setauket the year before. Instead, he had only sent a handful of soldiers to accompany the Patriot families to help them settle with families in various parts of the state and had only received a letter a couple of months later from his father detailing how he had settled into what used to be his house in the town. When he had visited his father after coming down from Achilles' Homestead, it had been in Hartford instead.

As Ben made his way up towards the schoolhouse, taking the right path before entrance towards the small row of houses where all of the teachers lived as well as the minister that ran the church and his family, he was glad in a way to see that nothing had changed much. The town, though certainly affected by the war in terms of the able-bodied men that had left to serve, had not been ravaged or torched by the British.

As he had been on a secretive mission to check troop readiness, Ben had not had time to forewarn his father of his arrival and hoped that at least the man was home. If not, he supposed that Joseph, Ezekiel, and Rachel would not mind if he stayed for the next two days. They had been the house servants that he had been given for his appointment as superintendent and part-time teacher of the schools. He had left them to take care of the house while he had been gone and now they served his father. His stipend for their work, since they were freedmen, was meager and small, but they did not complain. Now, Ben drew his pay and sent part of it regularly to maintain the upkeep of his house as well as to furnish his father's comforts.

He tilted his head a little in puzzlement at the sight of a carriage sans horse on the side of the path that led to his house. Someone was already here and it seemed his father had been entertaining them for the last few days judging by the amount of frost and powdery snow that covered parts of the carriage. The carriage itself also looked vaguely familiar, but Ben could not place where he had seen it before. Shrugging mostly to himself, he turned to lead his horse to the stables when he heard the distinctive report of a Pennsylvania rifle going off followed a half-second later by the sound of glass shattering in the back of the house.

Ben frowned; why would his father be shooting his rifle in the back, and against glass bottles of all things. With his curiosity further roused, he led his horse into the stables, quickly taking off the halter and saddle as well as giving the creature a quick brush down. He set a good amount of hay and water and finally placing a blanket on his faithful mount. Not even after he had done so, he heard a second report of the rifle, but there was no sound of glass shattering. Ben grabbed his travel roll, saddlebags, and helm before heading out of the stables. His boots crunched against the packed snow as he headed towards the back.

His frown turned into a bemused expression as he saw his father standing with another person he did not recognize, but was clearly teaching him the finer intricacies of using the familiar Pennsylvania rifle. The other man had a thatch of greying reddish hair that was more grey than colored, along with a short trimmed beard that was definitely whitish grey. Still he did not look much older than perhaps his early thirties. However, the hunched posture he had unconsciously adopted told Ben that he definitely had seen a lot more than what a man his age should have – which was probably the precedent of his greying hair.

The crunch of his boots in snow must have alerted them as he saw the other man suddenly look up and towards him before his father turned to see what he was staring at and Ben could not help but smile.

“Ben!” his father greeted, a wide smile splitting across his face as Ben crunched over the snow and shifted his bags to one hand while he shook his father's extended hand. He suddenly felt himself being dragged into a thumping embrace and awkwardly tried to hug his father in return with his saddlebags, roll, and helmet precariously held.

“Hello father,” he greeted quietly, feeling a little shy as always when he was around him. The first time he had seen his father after he had enlisted was rescuing him from Setauket and it had been a surprise, almost a shock to hear the words of praise and the fact that his father was so proud of him. His father had stared at his uniform with pride and it had made Ben feel like a young boy once more. That same feeling lingered as his father stared at him now.

In his formative years, they had talked so infrequently due to his father's missions as an Assassin and his seemingly recalcitrant demeanor whenever he did see his father in between missions. The infrequency of his visits home had made Ben yearn for his approval and he and Samuel had turned to each other for support, especially after their mother had died. When Ben had been sent away to boarding school, he had all but cut his father out of his life and continued the trend when he enrolled at Yale. He was not used to the pride shining in his father's eyes.

“Just arrived?” his father asked and Ben nodded as he released his hand and placed a firm one on his back, guiding him towards the person he had been teaching. “Ben, this is Duncan Little. Duncan, this is my son Benjamin. Achilles asked me to help Duncan learn the finer points of rifling to further improve his abilities.”

“Oh...oh....” Ben realized that Duncan was a member of the Assassins if his father's words were any indication, and more than likely a recent recruit. He shook hands with the other man before looking around, “Achilles is here?”

“Headed into town, wanted to look around the markets. Rachel is with him to make sure he doesn't slip on the patches of ice or muddy slush,” his father replied, but there was the undercurrent of _something_ in his voice that Ben could not quite identify. He had the oddest feeling that it was about him, but was not directed _towards_ him.

“Here, let me get Joseph – Joseph! - to come help you find a room. Will you be staying long?” his father gestured for him to climb the stairs to the porch where Joseph opened the back door and the black man smiled at the sight of him.

“Master Benjamin, good to see that you've returned,” Joseph gestured with his arms for him to give him his bags and roll to which Ben did so with a grateful nod of thanks.

“For the next couple,” he replied, but did not say anymore knowing that while Duncan was an Assassin, he had long learned that discretion and words could be heard by anyone in the vicinity.

His father nodded, eyes twinkling a little at the discretion he was exerting on his words. He knew that his father knew he was the Head of Intelligence for Washington; it was one of the few things on the official dispatches as well as a hasty explanation – and bit of a lie – of military scouts that he had explained about why he and his men raided Setauket. But Ben could not help but wonder how _much_ his father knew about his work, especially since he was a former Assassin. It was disconcerting to see his father in such a light, especially after what he had learned of the Assassins. When he had been growing up, he knew that his father was an Assassin and served the Brotherhood, but did not quite comprehend it all until now.

“I'll have to get a runner to let Rachel know to buy something succulent, maybe a wild turkey or something, for dinner tonight-”

“I'll let her know. I was going to head back into town to buy some supplies and to have new clothing tailored,” he offered and saw his father smile a little bit.

“Still don't like the rifling lessons, eh?” he asked and Ben ducked his head a little in a small laugh.

“It was very educational and interesting, but I shall leave your lessons to your newest student,” he could see Duncan frowning with some worry at his words. He glanced beyond the Assassin recruit's shoulder and saw that at least four pistols and two rifles had been set up and were leaning on the railings. He remembered his father's shooting lessons very well.

After learning the basics of reloading and committing it to memory, his father then shot pistols and rifles into the air near his head to get him used to reloading under fire. Then came the bullets that were shot near his position while he learned how to do it while having bullets _very_ near him. Samuel had been nearly frightened out of his wits, by virtue of being the eldest to undergo such a training, but Ben had mastered it because he had seen Samuel go through it. He knew his brother had resented him for that, but had been able to salvage his honor by being an even sharper marksman than he was on both horse-back and on foot. Ben could only manage to hit body parts instead of having an instant-kill when rifling.

Ben decided to take some pity on Duncan and reached over and clapped the other man on the shoulder, “Cheer up, it'll be all right. I'll have Joseph prepare a salve later on for your ears.”

With that, he followed Joseph into the house, catching the puzzled look the other man had on his face. “Calendula and some oils and grease would create the salve,” he said, “it would help heal the bleeding in the ears he may have later on after my father's training.”

“Yes sir,” Joseph replied before gesturing to one of the smaller rooms that used to be Ben's study in the house, “I am sorry sir, but Masters Tallmadge and Achilles-”

“It's all right, I expected it,” Ben said, noting that the couch was the only viable sleeping area in the study. While it was small, it was most definitely larger than his own tent back at Valley Forge, and more comfortable than the straw bunk he had prepared for himself there.

“I will gather blankets for you,” Joseph said as he set his things down on the small high-backed chair that was next to the small fire, “do you need more firewood, sir?”

“Yes, if you please,” he said before Joseph left the room and Ben closed the door behind him.

He breathed out a quiet sigh as he looked around. Everything seemed to have stayed the same, but he noticed that a few things had been moved around. He had no doubts that either his servants or even his father had rifled through his drawers, reading his various correspondences, letters, or even mandates that he had written in his three years there. He had written unpublished manifestos, letters to his best friend Nathan Hale after they had graduated Yale, had even some of his papers from professors and their remarks on them in this room. There was the occasional student homework he had corrected, but it had also housed a lot of the more mundane paperwork for the school district's budget, plans, and goals for the upcoming year or years that had past.

There were also a few correspondences from women he had met at Yale while debating and he knew that more than one had written to him without the consent of their fathers. Those letters he had responded with cordial greetings and basic interest, the politics of the colonies fascinating him at that time more than the missives of his female admirers. Ben did not expect any of that to be private anymore; not since he had left to fight and his father had moved in.

Still, it felt like a semblance of home since he had been away and he relaxed a little as he took off his jacket and shook the fine dust of flurrying snow from it before hanging it to dry next to the fire. He reached into his one of his saddlebags and pulled out his worn traveling cloak and a more casual dark jacket. It was similar to the leather ones he had seen Abe wear from time to time, putting that on just as Joseph's polite knock came.

“Enter,” he said as he adjust his sleeves and put on the traveling cloak over it. He had not had time to waterproof the jacket with some of Caleb's whale oil, so his traveling cloak would have to protect it from the elements.

“Excuse me sir,” Joseph said as he brought in a heap of blankets and some firewood. Ben helped by taking the firewood out of his hands and set most of it to the side next to the hearth, before putting a few sticks of kindling and one log into the fire, tending to it for a few seconds before straightening. It would be nice and warm by the time he returned from his errands. He glanced over to see Joseph adjusting his blankets across the couch before leaving with a nod.

Taking his sword belt off, he instead removed his pistol holster and wore that, before checking the knife attached to the side of the holster as well as the one in his boot. The knife in his boot had saved his life back when he had been ambushed in New Jersey by Robert Rogers. His pistol was a traditional one, instead of the spring loaded bayonet that was built into Caleb's, but Ben was not adverse to having another dagger near his pistol. One could never be too prepared.

Grabbing his small pouch of money as well as his unbuckled sword, he headed out of his room and out the front door. He paused for a moment to take in the blast of cold winter air once more, breathing in deeply at the smell of _home_ . He closed his eyes for a few seconds to enjoy the cold air, before just as suddenly the moment was shattered as he sensed something not quite _right_.

He snapped open his eyes and looked around, his eyes taking in the bare trees, snow coating branches and nooks as well as the browned leaves on the ground. His ears focused past the shuffling of the horses' feet near the stables as well as the quiet murmur and sounds of his father and Duncan as the thumps and twangs of metal-on-metal told him that Duncan was reloading his father's rifle. But nothing seemed amiss.

Whatever had triggered the sense of something _not quite right_ had not made itself known. It was a sixth sense of sorts that he had since he could remember his childhood. It had saved him from time to time, most notably alerting him of the Queen's Ranger that had been given the detail of ensuring his men were all dead after the ambush. It had saved him from a bullet in the ambush that Rogers had tried to lure him into after Selah's prisoner transfer, and had allowed him to evade the Redcoat patrols while he had made his way to the Homestead. He had never mentioned it to his father in the times that he was around, but had always taken it as a lucky charm of sorts. What had broken his reverie then?

Seeing that nothing seemed out of the ordinary, Ben relaxed a little bit, but decided to keep a wary eye out as he headed back towards the town's center. Maybe it was two years on the front, or maybe it was just nerves, but Ben hoped that maybe this time, his sixth sense was wrong.

* * *

The two pairs of eyes that had been watching Major Benjamin Tallmadge emerge from the largest of the row of houses that were situated next to the schoolhouse breathed dual sighs of relief as the dragoon passed them without any suspicion.

“You didn't tell me he's got _that_ skill,” one of the men hissed to the other. He picked at the borrowed green uniform he had been given for this mission. He understood that it was a disguise, to cover their tracks, but he hated the wool – it itched like a dead man had worn it and died in it until maggots claimed his body.

“How the hell should I have known? It wasn't in any of the General's dispatches,” the other answered.

“Yeah well, we finish this job, I'm demanding double. It's goin' be hard sneakin' about with a guy with _that_ skill,” the first man grumbled.

“Well, let's just kill 'im first then figure out payment, all right? General's suspicious about him since that _injun_ escaped in York City and wants him gone,” his partner nudged him none too gently in the ribs before they left their place of concealment and headed back into the deep woods.

 


	2. Chapter 2

The second time it happened, Ben could not keep the surprise off of his face as he accepted the enthusiastic embrace from the tailor's wife. He had already been greeted warmly and with some surprised enthusiasm from the blacksmith already when he had requested new shoes for his horse, a sharpening of his sword, as well as two new daggers to replace the ones he had on him. The blacksmith's wife had embraced him and called him her hero as well as jokingly referred to him as his adopted son before letting him get on with business. Now, as he composed himself after the awkward hug from the tailor's wife he could not help but be a little more than shockingly bemused at what had transpired. He saw her bustled back behind a curtain to continue to help fit a customer who had come for alterations.

“Don't mind Emma, Major,” the tailor, a one Mr. Robert Reed, a middle-aged man whom had a hooked nose and pinched spectacles over his face said with a kind smile, “she and the rest of the sewing circle have been reading the latest news from the fronts as well as garnering information about your and the 2 nd Light's heroics.” The older man chuckled lightly, “You've quite the admirers, Major Tallmadge.”

Ben blinked, a little taken aback at the man's words before hastily clearing his throat, “Oh, um, thank you...I suppose...” He could instantly imagine Caleb's expression as well as his phantom voice going on and on about the virtues of women, things about experience, and the fact that he 'Benny-boy' was rather lucky to have so many female admirers.

Ben did not think he was that oblivious to the admiration of the women – he had letters from them in his desk to prove it – but he thought that with the war effort and all, he needed to put his focus more on driving out the British than to pursue his own wants and needs. Apparently he he might have been a little bit wrong on that part, especially with the admiration of the blacksmith's wife and Mr. Reed's wife to boot. He coughed lightly, “Well, then...”

“The two new shirts will be ready for you by the day after tomorrow as is two clean vests and the extra pair of woolen stockings. The jacket however, might not be. Is there a place you wish me to deliver this to?” Mr. Reed asked and Ben shook his head.

“Keep it for me. I will send one of my men with the payment when you have finished it,” he was a little disappointed that he would not be collecting a new jacket when he left.

He owned three of them and one of them had bloodstains on them from when he was grazed with a bullet a couple of months ago protecting Washington from Thomas Hickey's assassination attempt. His current one was staring to get a bit worn from all of his traveling and from being rotated in and out as best as he could with his blood-stained one. His third one was a little more elaborate and used as his dress uniform when he had meetings with Washington or any others. He hesitated to use that one as part of his jacket rotation, but with this new one unable to be ready in time, he would have to start using it.

“Well, I will try my best-”

“It's fine Mr. Reed, you have your regulars and they too need their clothing for the upcoming planting season,” he knew that he was within his rights as both an officer of the Continental Army and as a soldier to demand and receive clean and tailored clothing befitting his station. But Ben also knew that he would be making unreasonable demands on someone he had known for three years.

The tailor looked surprised at his answer before a smile appeared on his face, “Thank you, sir for your kindness. Now then, your total will be fourteen Continental dollars or at least seven pounds if you wish to pay with coin.”

Ben did not say anything at the steeply low price he had been given, knowing that it had only been given because he did not expedite his jacket and the tailor was feeling grateful. Instead, he opened up his leather satchel and pulled out the Continental dollars he needed before handing it over. He would have used the poundage upon his persons, but he also wanted to save it for bribes in case they encountered trouble crossing the Hudson on their way back to Morristown and from there to Valley Forge.

“Do you need new nickel or silver buckles for your shoes, sir?” he asked and Ben glanced down at his feet, pursing his lips for a moment before shaking his head. His riding boots needed no buckles, but his dress shoes back at camp probably could have used new ones. However Ben was hoping that maybe he could use some of Caleb's more interesting whaling tools and devices to shine the buckles. He certainly seen his best friend hand around some kind of paste to the others in camp and the result was extremely shiny buckles and the occasional sword. Though he he had seen Caleb use the paste and set his personal tomahawk on fire.

“These will do for now, thank you though,” he said as he mentally counted the amount of money he had left to buy some extra supplies at the general store as well as to pay the blacksmith for what he requested. Mr. Reed nodded and Ben left the shop, pulling his traveling cloak tighter at the sudden gust of wind. The sun was already setting, casting everything in a pale frosty-like glow, but Ben could make out the shops starting to close up and the noises from the tavern that John Davenport owned growing louder and louder.

He headed across the street to where the butcher's shop and general store were located, hoping that maybe Rachel was still there. To his luck, he saw her exit the butcher's shop along with Achilles and ran the rest of the way.

“Rachel! Master Achilles!” he called out and saw the two look up before Rachel smiled, the white of her teeth contrasting the extremely black skin she had.

“Master Benjamin!” she called in return as he shut an eye against another gust of a gale that blew down the street and huddled near them.

“Major Tallmadge, good to see you again,” Achilles greeted with his usual rasp as Ben nodded towards the master Assassin.

“The same,” he returned before turning to Rachel, “has the butcher's shop closed yet?”

“They're just about to, are you home for long? I can go back and get a fowl of sorts if you wish,” Rachel immediately knocked back on the shop's door before it opened and the burly form of the butcher himself looked curiously at them before spotting him.

“Tallmadge! You're back! I thought you were here...saw the horses ride by just hours ago, but didn't realize it was you and the boys,” the butcher, David if Ben remembered correctly, was always a constant fixture at the Davenport Tavern. He was loud, boisterous, and Ben distinctly remembered the man challenging others to arm wrestle with him in a drunken wage of sorts.

“David, do you have any sort of fowl, turkey, chicken or even pheasant I can buy off of you-”

“Aye, that I do, give me a second, which do you prefer, Ms. Rachel?”

Rachel shot him a questioning look and Ben shrugged. It had been a while since he had fresh fowl meat and he had no preferences. All fresh meat was better than the salted pork, fish, and hard cheese they had been eating at Valley Forge for the past winter. “The chicken then, easier to cook and pluck if you would be so kind good sir,” Rachel answered and David nodded before closing the door to get her order.

“I hope you don't mind chicken-”

“Any fresh meat is good, especially if I remember your cooking,” he interrupted her and saw her duck her head at his compliment before Achilles smiled a little.

“Rations do tend to get dry after a while,” the Mentor of the Assassins commented absently before they fell into a companionable silence.

The silence was broken after a few seconds in which the door opened again and David stepped out, holding a freshly slaughtered chicken. Ben took a cautious step back to avoid the drip of blood, the coppery smell of it reminding him greatly of the overwhelming pungent odor of his slaughtered men in New Jersey for a second. Instead, he offered to take Rachel's basket of brought food and spices as the woman reached out to grab the proffered chicken by its legs. With her other hand she dropped the appropriate amount of coins into David's hand who clenched it and grinned.

“I should be saving this, but ol' Davenport's got my name on it,” the butcher looked at him, “Davenport back with ye?”

“Probably telling tall tales,” Ben gestured with his head towards the Tavern and David laughed loudly.

“Or telling sweet nothin's to his wife,” the man snickered before heading over to the Tavern, his business clearly closed.

Ben shook his head and gestured with the basket in his hands to Rachel and Achilles, “Shall we?”

The other two nodded as they headed back to the house, Ben trying his best not to stare at the drip of blood against snow from the slaughtered chicken. He mostly succeeded by keeping his eyes forward and the basket held in front of him. He knew it was silly to think of such things, but he could not help but think of the same blood that had dripped while seeing the wounded after Trenton and even in other attacks over the last couple of years. He managed to pull himself from his thoughts as they reached the house without incident and Ben handed over the basket to Rachel who took it and the chicken into the kitchens, leaving him and Achilles in the front hall.

He made to excuse himself when the Assassin tapped him lightly on the wrist with his walking cane, “A moment of your time, if you will, Major.”

“Of course,” Ben gestured for Achilles to precede him into the sitting room where the flickering warmth of a well-tended hearth invited to melt the chill from their bones. He followed, taking off his traveling cloak and hanging it by one of the coat racks near the door as he passed by before shedding his leather jacket and folding it over one arm. Achilles did the same, but hung his jacket over one of the high-backed chairs in the room before easing himself into the same chair.

“How much do you know of our order?” Achilles asked as Ben made himself comfortable in his own chair. It was angled towards the fire, but not enough so that he was still facing Achilles.

“Of the history between the Brotherhood and the Templars?” he asked, a little puzzled at the question, “not much aside from the fact that I know the Brotherhood has been fighting them for a very long time; far longer than when these colonies were established.” He saw the elderly man nod absently and continued, “I also know that Shay Cormac was one of the Brotherhood before he betrayed them.”

“Your father told...?”

“Yes, he told me,” Ben confirmed, “after I visited the Homestead.” He had a feeling that Achilles was working his way towards a goal, but did not know what it was. In the mean time, he was content to answer the man's inquiries; finding no direct harm in answering such questions.

Achilles made a noise of agreement before rubbing his bristled chin quietly for a few seconds, “Major Tallmadge...Benjamin...the order needs men like you to lead it back to its rightful place, to stop the spread of the Templars' influences and their schemes...”

Ben sat back slowly as he met Achilles' firm look, “You wish for me to join the Brotherhood.”

“Aye,” the man nodded once, “we need leaders like yourself to guide both the war effort and the country when we succeed.”

“When,” Ben stared at Achilles, thinking of all of the sick and dying men in the cold, hard ground of Valley Forge. It was brutal there, and though he had left before the worst of the winter had arrived, he could not help but feel for the men there.

“We've received word that France has all but allied itself with the Continental Congress and the fledgling United States of America. The Marquis de Lafayette is already at your winter camp,” the other man said with a slight smile and Ben could only stare in shock.

“T-That's...that's great news!” he released a shaky breath at the sudden and sheer amount of joy he was feeling. France was their ally and it meant more troops,  _ships_ , supplies, and most of all, hope that they were going to win this even with the loss of both Philadelphia and New York. He wished he had a drink or something next to him, but instead rubbed his face, suddenly feeling a lot better in a long, long time. He felt more confident in the troops stationed in Boston, in re-taking parts of Rhode Island and just generally about everything.

“So you understand our request for you to join the Brotherhood?” Achilles asked, bringing Ben's focus back to what he has asked. “With France's help this country will come to be and we will soon be free of England's yolk. The Templars support the British and with the rise of this new country, they stand to lose everything. We must take this chance to ensure that they cannot cause such chaos or have such influencing power once more.”

“You wish for me to use my position in Washington's shadow to help further the Brotherhood's goals?” he dared not say that he was the former Head of Intelligence in case Achilles did not know that. As far as he knew, Washington had not made it publicly known considering the deference and respect he had been given in Boston, so Ben was not inclined to tell anyone else. It was also because it still stung and hurt to have his Commander-in-Chief feel that way about him.

“We are not the chaotic entity you may have heard of contrary to Templars' rumors,” the older man said, “we only want the freedom and free will for those to choose what they want.”

Ben could feel the flicker of a half-truth hanging in the air and pressed on it, “But that's not quite true, is it not?”

He caught the barest flash of surprise in Achilles' dark eyes before a small smile appeared on his lips and he shook his head, “Your perception does you credit, Major Tallmadge.

“No. I am asking because while Connor does his best and is my apprentice, he does not understand the finer politicking that happens with men who rebel against an established order. He is...naive, though I suspect that he is beginning to realize that. But he is also head-strong and stubborn about his believes. And so will support whatever goals are achieved for this his new nation that is growing before our eyes.” Achilles sat forward, “I want you to help him, support him, be the voice of reason to the shadows in men's hearts like Washington and the others.”

“You are asking me to choose between Washington and Connor, or rather, the ideals of the order itself,” Ben stated and saw the other man shake his head.

“No-”

“If their ideals come in conflict-”

“No, I am not,” Achilles interrupted with another shake of his head, “I am asking you to be the  _bridge_ between Washington and Connor.”

“But to also swear by the Creed should the need arise,” he countered, “and to follow it no matter what allegiances or other vows taken because to be a member of the Brotherhood is to devote one's life to it.”

The older man was quiet for a few minutes as the two stared at each other. The distant sounds of a kitchen come to life with dinner being made as well as the muffled sounds of what could have been guns being cleaned in the back echoed in the house. There was an unspoken conversation that hung in the air and it seemed to remind the older man of the very reason why he was having this discussion as he pressed his lips together in a thin line. “Your father,” Achilles finally stated and Ben inclined his head once.

“I will decline your offer with the same simple reason I gave to Connor when he asked me why I was not part of the order,” he said quietly, “it is because I cannot see a service to the order and raise a family at the same time.”

He held up a hand to prevent the other man from interrupting again, “I've already pledged my service to one man under God, and cannot do so to a war or a cause I know that has gone on past my father's time. I pledged to ensure the freedom of this country because I  _know_ the war will end and I will be able to retire to a life I want and with a family I wish to raise.”

“And even with France's help, if we lose this war?” Achilles asked, his eyes sharp.

“Then I will die knowing that I have done all that I can in service to my general, my country, and my beliefs,” he replied, meeting the older man's steely look.

“The Brotherhood has resources-”

“Aye, it does,” he agreed with a gentle interruption, “and I am willing to share my knowledge with Connor and am grateful that he has shared his knowledge with me regarding plots against General Washington. But so do the Templars.” He saw the dark-skinned man's expression abruptly close and knew that he had hit the mark. He supposed it was a good time as any to voice the biggest suspicion he had since Connor's escape from Bridewell prison and his hanging. “General Charles Lee is a Templar, is he not?”

The only reply he got was a bland look from Achilles and he had to admire the man's unwillingness to tell him anything in face of his question. But at the same time, something in Ben told him that he was on the right path – that Achilles' lack of expression had also confirmed his suspicions. It was why he insisted on presiding over Connor's execution when normally a so-called assassin come to take the General's life would not even be treated with such exuberance. There was also the matter that Lee somehow knew Connor, had interrogated him.

“Thomas Hickey was also one of the men I knew that was part of Washington's Lifeguard. As he was not one of my own, I suspect that he was Lee's man by virtue of being part of William Bradford's men and Bradford is Lee's man,” he continued, choosing his words carefully.

He did not know if Bradford was a Templar, but suspected that he was not because of his sheer idiocy and incompetence. It was laughable to him that such a 'yes-man' to Lee was one of the fabled Templars he had heard from childhood stories. He also did not want to reveal to Achilles that Anna's former servant Abigail had already sent word that Lee was a traitor. No, that was information for him to use and to hopefully expose Lee to Washington without making the same blunder he did months earlier.

A thought occurred to him as pieces started to fall into place in his mind. “You wish to counter the potential Templar influence General Lee has on Washington with my help. Is this the primary reason why you wish me to join the Brotherhood?”

Achilles' bland look turned sharp once more before he shook his head with a quiet snort, “You are a very sharp one, Tallmadge. I dare say sharper than your father, though I will freely admit, much more personable.”

“You can thank my mother for that,” Ben replied dryly, feeling as if he had passed a test in front of the old master Assassin. It also seemed to signal that this conversation was churning into less fraught waters and it was only a few seconds later that Ben realized why. He heard footsteps on the hardwood floors grow closer before he saw his father appear.

“I thought I heard voices in here when a most wonderful aroma began to filter from the kitchens to the porch,” Ben's father wore a congenial smile on his face, but there was the same edge of something strained from when he had talked to him earlier.

“Just talking about the latest with the war, that is all,” Achilles gripped the arm of the chair and pushed himself up, grabbing his cane and jacket, officially ending their conversation.

Ben also stood up as Achilles hobbled out. He could tell that the other man still wanted to convince him to join the Brotherhood, but for now, it seemed to have been tabled due to his father's appearance. Ben waited until he heard the tapping of Achilles' cane going up the stairs and turned to his father, “Anything you wish to tell me?”

“Just a gentleman's disagreement,” his father replied evasively before clapping him on his shoulder and gestured for them to head to the dining room, “come, tell me all about your more recent adventures – or at least the ones you are allowed to tell, son. I have a fine port that was generously donated when I first arrived here and a palate to whet.”

Ben nodded as he followed his father out of the parlor. He was still puzzled as to what would have transpired between his father and Achilles to make them somewhat frosty to each other, but did not dwell on it much. His father was teaching another of the Assassins, so certainly it had nothing to do with the Brotherhood. It must have been something mundane as perhaps dinner or some kind of wager of sorts. He vaguely remembered from long ago Achilles playing a mean hand of checkers; trouncing all of the opponents who challenged him, but at the same time gently teaching all of the children how to play. It was where he had learned several moves on the board that always had Caleb scratching his head and asking if it was legal.

* * *

The piping hot dinner was a welcomed respite from cold salted meats, hard cheese, and stale bread of rations. The port his father received as a welcoming gift from the community added to the warmth and contentment he had this late into the night. However, when one expected to be sleeping in bed, Ben found himself lying on the hardwood floorboards of the study he had been given instead. The blankets Joseph had brought in earlier were wrapped around him, cocooning him and giving him a small measure of comfort against hardness.

The couch had been too soft for him to consider sleeping on – not after two solid years of sleeping in tents, on uneven terrain, and even occasionally in the saddle when he was on extended patrol. He had been a Lieutenant, then a Captain, and bunking had been limited in the times the Continental forces had moving from town to town before and after fleeing New York. Even with his current rank as Major, housing had been extremely limited at Morristown and Valley Forge, most of General Washington's inner staff taking up some of the room – the others reserved for the higher ranked Generals and their staff. The fact that General Arnold had taken a tent for his recovery instead of the main house was telling in Ben's opinion. He was far nobler and Ben sometimes wished that the man had not had his leg maimed so badly at Saratoga. This was a General that was effective in battle and an ardent Patriot.

Conversation had been light during and after dinner as the four of them retired to the secondary sitting room. Topics were mostly about what British forces were up to, things happening Boston, conjecture in what was the latest in New York and even news from the southern front of the war. Ben had been very curious about those reports and to his surprise found out that Connor commanded a small fleet of privateers that had been delivering supplies to the Patriot forces in the southern colonies as well as trading with Spain and French-held colonies. He had also learned that Connor had recruited several others, sending them to help the war effort on different fronts. Most of them were based either in Boston or New York, but they were willing to help the Assassin cause – and in turn the Patriots – with their skills and resources. Duncan Little had been apparently assigned to the Boston-New York front of the war due to his familiarity with the vast swath of land in between the two cities.

Ben was not cynical enough to take what was discussed as another of Achilles' ploy to recruit him into the Brotherhood, but he did note that it was at least welcomed news his General would be glad to hear of about the southern front. Sooner or later, if and when they recapture Philadelphia and New York, the war would move to the south – where it was apparently very much fought like Indian tactics – hiding and ambushing. It was good to have an idea of what was happening with the war down there than to walk in with only military scout knowledge. He did not readily denounce the scouts' knowledge and courage to peer at enemy forces, but he acknowledged their shortcomings, especially after Sackett's lessons.

He shifted again in the cocoon of blankets, wondering why sleep was elusive to him this late at night. A warm meal, fire in his room, and even a heady port were all sure luxuries to send any man into the arms of Morpheus. But Ben could not help but feel like something was  _wrong_ . It was not with Achilles nor his father, or even the town for that matter, but something that told him something was  _wrong_ and that he should be wary and alert. The town was safe and secure and far away from any potential British invasion by river or by sea. Hartford would have sent their garrison out in warning before the marched on Wethersfield.

The only thing he could pinpoint as the source of his unease was the same exact feeling he had when he had initially stepped outside of the house on his way to town earlier. But that feeling had all but disappeared as he walked into town. Ben inwardly shook his head and sighed, rubbing his eyes a little before shifting once more and closed his eyes-

_Bang!Bang!Bang!_

The frantic pounding of the door made him snap his eyes open instantly and he hastily threw off his blankets as he scrambled to his feet. Ignoring the sudden chill of the room even though it was heated by fire, he opened his door and hurried out just as Joseph approached from the servant's quarters with a flickering candle in hand.

Ben peered through the window next to the door, wondering who would knock at this ungodly hour before he saw the distorted reflection of Henry's father, Harry Adamson. He opened the door, his body involuntarily twitching at the burst of cold winter air just as Harry raised his hand to pound his fist against it.

“Mr. Adamson?” he asked the lawyer who breathed a sigh of relief.

“Oh Major Tallmadge, thank god,” Adamson looked utterly relieved as he raised his lamp up to his face, “my son- he's-he's been shot and he's asking for you. Was trying to fend off an intruder who thought to steal things from our farmhouse-”

“Hang on, let me get my clothes,” Ben nodded before gesturing for the man to come in and closed the door behind him. He shivered a little against the cold as he ran back to his room and threw on his jacket, stockings and his boots before grabbing his traveling cloak which had been drying next to his uniform's jacket. Hastily tying back his hair, he secured his pistol and daggers on him before hurrying back out to the parlor where Henry's father waited.

“Ben what's-”

Ben glanced up to see his father leaning over the balustrade, dressed in his night robes, Achilles' dark eyes peering behind him. Duncan appeared from the other end and he waved them away.

“Just some issue with one of my men, I'll be back soon,” he said before nodding to Mr. Adamson to lead the way as Joseph opened the door and the two of them headed out into the cold winter night.

“I-I brought another horse...” Adamson gestured to the horse that was next to his own and Ben nodded his thanks as he mounted it and followed the lawyer at a fast trot.

As they made their way through town before turning down to the streets that led to the Adamson farmland plot, Ben surmised that the wound must be gravely serious if Henry was asking for him. The man must have wanted to ensure that his name would not be held in contempt if he died and did not show up during the appointed time for them to meet the day after tomorrow. But it puzzled him that such a thing could have been easily remedied by someone acting as a messenger or courier. Still, Henry was a good man and Ben would not let him die without letting him know he made a difference in the war effort.

“I don't know why he would steal from our storehouse. We didn't have a good harvest this year,” Adamson called back as they rode towards his plot of land, “would have been better to steal from the Griffiths plot. They had a better harvest this year than us.”

“Starvation drives a man to do unspeakable acts,” Ben called back and saw the lawyer nod as they pulled up to his house and Ben dismounted.

“I'll take care of these, please, see to my son, Major,” Adamson said as he took the reigns from his hand and Ben stepped away.

He knocked on the door and it opened a crack and Ben saw the familiar face of Henry's younger sister Elizabeth. Her eyes were red-rimmed from crying, and her lips were turned down into a frown, but they turned up at the sight of him.

“Major Tallmadge,” Betsy, as Henry had always called her, nearly stuttered quietly before she opened the door and gestured for him to come in. Ben remembered only teaching her once or twice before he enlisted.

“I'm sorry about your brother, Betsy,” he apologized and she shook her head.

“No apologies necessary, s-sir,” she looked down and away before gesture with a timid hand down the hall, “Dr. Regan is currently seeing to him and sent me away saying it was no place for someone like me to see such sights.”

Ben bit his lip at saying that the doctor was right, remembering a little bit of what he knew about Betsy from Henry. Apparently they were born almost ten months apart from each other and were close. Henry said that Betsy had a similar temperament to him and from what Ben knew about Henry, it was mostly mulish stubbornness that was exacerbated for the most part on their neighbor Liam's account. “Your brother is a good and stubborn man, Betsy,” he said instead and saw her nod at his words before looking away, hastily wiping her eyes again.

He felt a quick pang of sorrow for her, but pushed past it as he went down the hallway and opened the door to the room that the doctor was apparently operation on Henry. The sharp odor of copper assaulted his senses and Ben was momentarily taken aback, remembering the drip of blood from the freshly slaughtered chicken, before seeing a quick flash of the bodies of the patrol he had lost in New Jersey. He clamped his lips shut against the sudden bile that threatened to rise up in his throat and swallowed heavily as he forced himself to focus on the here and now.

Henry was writhing in pain as the doctor dug around for the bullet in what looked like an apparent shoulder wound that was closer to the chest than shoulder. Ben's instincts kicked in as he rushed over and helped hold down one of his shoulders. At the same time he re-secured the leather stuffed in Henry's mouth to prevent him from biting his tongue off. Ben gritted his teeth as he put is weight against Henry's body, hoping for the boy's sake that he pass out soon instead of suffering in so much waking pain. He vaguely remembered his own bullet wound being taken out, but supposed that since it had been shot from the back, it was a lot less painful than being shot in the front.

“Got it,” Dr. Regan finally grunted, pulling out the bullet just as Henry finally passed out from the pain. Ben quickly placed two fingers underneath his soldier's jaw and found that his pulse was thready and fast, but still strong. He breathed a quick sigh of relief and nodded to Henry's two younger brothers who had been charged with holding him down. They smiled weakly back as they crawled off of their brother's limbs and Ben stood back as Dr. Regan went back to work on the wound.

“Come now,” Ben looked up at what had to be Mrs. Adamson gesturing for her sons to leave and Ben caught a glimpse of Betsy behind her with a small smile on her face at their success as the door closed behind them.

He stepped back some more and watched the doctor bustle around for a few minutes before glancing down at the bowl where the bullet had been dropped into. A frown graced his features as he stared at the bullet itself and picked it up. He absently dried it of its blood and water on the side of his traveling cloak, and rolled it in his fingers a few times. He had grown up with his father's multitude of pistols, flintlocks, and rifles and knew the variety of rounds and the sizing differences in each. A Pennsylvania rifle had a much smaller round than a soldier's musket ball. Though musket balls were commonly made, each soldier had been given the tools to make their own the day they enlisted.

The rifle ball they had pulled from his shoulder courtesy of Robert Rogers had been a Pennsylvania rifle make, smaller, but with a far more accurate range in the hands of a sharpshooter.

This was a soldier's musket ball. He was sure of it. Which meant Robert Rogers was not hunting them...it was a soldier's. But this far from any known British outpost. Was it a deserter from the Continental army that had ambushed Henry? But why when he could have easily stolen from the next house over like Mr. Adamson had said? Something about this did not seem right...as if someone had deliberately targeted Henry to send a message.

But what was the message? And who was it to?

 


	3. Chapter 3

Sleep had been elusive earlier in the night before Harry Adamson pounded on the door to the house – but now, Ben knew that he was not getting any sleep for the rest of the night. Not with the grim faces of his father, Achilles, and Duncan that had greeted him upon his return home half an hour after seeing to Henry's wounds. He had been told that someone seemingly dressed in the greens denoting the Queen's Rangers had almost been caught outside of the house, peering into the windows. Duncan had frightened off the intruder attempting to climb into the house through the room he had been using as his temporary quarters. The intruder had fled, swift-footed across the packed snow, making the others think it was perhaps a native or someone who knew the lay of the land.

It had thrown all of Ben's questions regarding the origin of the musket ball that had been shot into Henry's shoulder into question. He had thought a soldier had sent a message, but now with the mention of forest green uniforms and potential natives...could it have been the Indian he knew worked with Rogers?

Though he had never witnessed Connor's abilities to leap from tree to tree with the barest of ease, he had seen his seemingly light-footedness and predatory stance when he had first met him at the Homestead. Maybe all natives had such abilities...and if it was true, maybe it did herald the fact that it was Robert Rogers was in the area. Which meant a lot of things, but Ben did not discount the fact that he and Rogers had an enmity for each other.

Duncan Little had offered to set a watch of sorts, but Ben had declined his offer, stating that he would keep watch instead and now found himself rounding the house a second time. He stepped carefully in his own previously made tracks, glancing occasionally down at the other set of tracks that had been the intruder's, mixed with Duncan's more frantic steps of pursuit. He had spent the last hour using the moonlight rounding the house, studying both the tracks and where the snow had been disturbed outside of the house as the mysterious would-be intruder had tried to come in.

Had Rogers' man wanted to set an ambush for him inside the house? Or was it not Rogers' man, but someone who was trying to throw them off their scent and attempting a feint of sorts. Was the intruder's target Achilles and Duncan, or even perhaps his father since they were all Assassins? That seemed the more likely cause, the more he studied the footprints and thought about the musket ball that had been shot into Henry. Like Harry Adamson had said, the Griffiths had a far more bountiful harvest, so there was no reason to attempt to rob the Adamsons of their meager grain. If his soldier's wound was a feint and ploy to draw him away so that an attack could be made on the rest of the household, then it had nearly succeeded.

That seemed the more logical choice, but Ben could not help but think he was missing something very important. Samuel would have known what to do, by virtue of seemingly having a quicker mind than he; it was how his brother was promoted faster than he was. He sighed, feeling the small ache of pain in his heart that he knew belonged to his brother Samuel. Just a little over a year since his death and Ben still missed him, especially since he had seen his father and enjoyed the first proper meal in over three years with him. Watching his father teach Duncan the finer techniques of rifling had brought forth memories he had not known would create such a hurt in him at the loss of his older brother.

He sighed again and rubbed his hands quickly, creating a slight warmth in them that he did not quite feel on his finger tips as he quietly entered the house once more. He shed his cloak and adjusted his uniform's jacket; the snow covering it earlier now dried. Heading into the parlor where a small fire was going, he stood near the fireplace and absently warmed his hands. Ben tried to push away the sudden nostalgia at the memory of his brother and instead focused on the mystery of someone attacking Henry as well as skulking outside of the house.

Perhaps it was Templars, disguised as the Queen's Rangers, or were even part of the unit itself, somehow finding out that Achilles and Duncan were here. It made sense to him; only because he knew he would have sensed something amiss while he and the rest of his small unit had ridden into town earlier. It so happened by luck or providence of sorts that he had gotten caught in between the Templars and Assassins. Or perhaps he had ruined the Templars' plans for Achilles and Duncan and they had regrouped to attempt to wound his men to draw him away.

But something in his thoughts told him he was wrong. That he was missing a key component; yet Ben could not figure out what. He rubbed his forehead in a small circle as he sighed wearily and sat down by the fire, staring at it.

“Samuel had that same look the night he decided to join the Continentals,” the soft voice of his father spoke up at the same time Ben heard the creak of wooden floorboards being stepped upon.

“You should be asleep,” he chided gently as he saw his father round one of the chairs and sat down in it. There was a candlestick in his hand as he set it on the small end table.

“As should you, my son,” his father stared at him with a wan smile before shaking his head, “but I know all too well the sudden appearance of danger followed by the lull of peace after the danger has passed. Just as I know that you won't sleep until you've puzzled out whatever puzzle you have been left with.”

“Probably someone looking to break in and steal valuables,” Ben commented offhandedly, but the look he received from his father told him that even he was not buying the flimsy excuse. However, his father refrained from commenting and instead, smiled wistfully.

“When we received the notice that you had joined the Continentals, Samuel immediately stood up from the dinner table and declared that he would join the cause too,” his father snorted quietly, “I think he was surprised that you would be so emboldened to join first. Perhaps thinking it a rivalry of sorts besides doing his duty.”

“Samuel always did like competition,” Ben remembered fondly, “climbing trees, being the muddiest, even swimming across the Sound. Rifling, letters to each other, even philosophical debates. He'd probably have already solved this current trouble I'm dealing with since he was far more observant than I was.”

His father sighed and nodded in agreement before rubbing his lower lip. “Benjamin, there is something I must confess to you.”

Ben saw his father flick a look at him before the wistful smile was replaced by a more grimacing look.

“I sent you away all those years ago because I did not want you to be a part of the Brotherhood-”

“But I chose of my own free will-”

His father held up a hand to stop him from talking further, “-I sent you away because I wanted you to choose. I...didn't allow Samuel to make that choice.”

It suddenly made sense in Ben's head as he saw the metaphoric puzzle pieces fall into place. Like the clarity and revelation of a spirited debate where the carefully crafted words inserted themselves and made it known in a winning argument. And just like that, everything about his father, about the Brotherhood in relation to his family, and even Achilles' request made so much sense.

“Samuel was an Assassin,” he said quietly, staring at his father in a whole new light.

“Aye, that he was,” Nathaniel Tallmadge replied, “and he was my apprentice until the war broke out and he joined the ranks of the Continentals. He would have been apprenticed to one of the other Assassins, like Betsy Andersen at Yale, but she had deemed it too risky since we had all been in hiding since the purge.”

“Or even Nathaniel Sackett,” Ben added and his father nodded.

“Aye, if I had known he was alive back then...he probably would have been the best teacher Samuel could ever have,” he said before sighing again and rubbing his chin, “Benjamin, you were the second son and I wanted you to live your own life outside of the Brotherhood.” His father gestured roughly towards the stairs and the rooms above, “Now Achilles wants a Tallmadge to serve in the Brotherhood, even though I've already told him it is not my choice nor would I press you to make it.”

“Why?”

“Achilles...sees talent, potential, and the chance to serve a goal and brotherhood greater than what anyone else can possibly imagine. He sees the chance for a greater good, a shaping of the world where free thought can reign instead of having such thoughts forced upon one's self,” his father explained patiently though he looked pensive.

“What do  _you_ think Achilles sees?” Ben asked and caught the surprised look his father shot at him before a small smile curled the corners of his lips.

“Your observation skills have certainly improved since I saw you last,” he said and Ben felt a small amount of pride swell in him at the praise. “I think Achilles sees power that if left unchecked would be squandered. That he wishes to control elements and people he thinks might have connections to power or be able to influence such power so it is favorable to the Assassin Brotherhood's long-term goals-”

“Which are-”

“-Something I will not and cannot tell you, Benjamin. There are secrets that even I am not allowed to tell those who are not of certain rank and order in the Brotherhood,” his father shook his head, “but I will warn you that Achilles is persistent if not stubborn in his zeal for the goals of the order itself.”

“Do you not want me to join the Brotherhood?” he asked.

“I can't say,” his father looked tired.

“Can't say, or won't say?” he countered.

His father bowed his head for a moment before looking back up at him, “Would you have accepted my order I told you what I wished for you?”

“I would accept it as counsel,” Ben raised an eyebrow at him and saw a smile appear on his father's face as he nodded.

“True, after all, you never really listened to any of my other missives and letters, especially about your expenses at Yale and the like,” his father chuckled lightly and Ben smiled a bit, “so then you may take this as counsel. While a part of me wants you to join because it would afford you so much more protection in your capacity as the Head of Intelligence to General Washington, I do not want you to join for the same reasons.

“You would be drawn into a war far more deadly. A war that has already claimed thousands upon thousands of lives over hundreds of years. Families have been affected by the war between the Assassins and Templars; even friends, brothers, fathers, sisters, husbands, and wives have betrayed each other or discovered the other to be part of either order.”

His father hunched forward a little bit, his fingers tenting together as he rested his chin on the webbing in between his thumb and index, “The Assassin Brotherhood follows three basic tenets, or a creed so to speak. One of them was to stay the blade from the flesh of an innocent. It is easy to say the Templars have no such qualms, but I can say for certain that neither does the Assassins in terms of following our creed. Innocence is subjective.”

“I could very well be targeted by the Templars if they ever found out you were an Assassin even though I was never part of the order. Even though I'm technically innocent since I am party to neither order,” Ben said and saw him nod in response.

“Even our informants or anyone we might rescue, target, or seek to influence can be either considered innocent or not. So, then who are we to say we must stay our blade from an innocent?”

“It seems like you thought about this for a long time,” Ben said and his father sat back up, leaning against the cushions of his chair with a long sigh.

“I took my teachings as a Reverend seriously, Benjamin,” he gave him a sideways look, “it wasn't for show nor for cover. I truly wanted to find something other than what I had devoted a majority of my life to; to understand  _why_ I had done what I had done in my line of work. Why I had raised my children so, and why I had lived my life in this way.”

Ben was quiet for a moment as he considered his father's words. He chewed his lower lip for a moment before tentatively speaking up, “Do you think Samuel was captured and imprisoned on the  _Jersey_ because he was an Assassin?”

He never knew the circumstances behind his brother's capture, only that he had been and was sentenced to the  _Jersey_ as were almost all other officers who had been captured by the British. But now, with the revelation that his brother had been the one to take up the mantle of an Assassin instead of him, he wondered what shadowy power could have possibly conceived such a thing and if it was not as simple as a capture of a Continental officer. General Arnold had indicated that he knew his brother and had served with him, but he supposed it was just the capacity of being a soldier to soldier.

“That...I do not know,” his father confessed with a shake of his head, “but Benjamin, you must not let paranoia take hold of you. Do not see the Templars and Assassins in every corner or else it will drive you mad.”

Ben nodded, “I know, I know. I just...” He shook his head again, “Do you know what I told Connor the first time I met him? He knew that you were a part of the Brotherhood, but asked why I was not.”

His father tilted his head for him to continue, “I told him it was because I wanted to someday raise a family. And that I realize to do that, I could not join the order.” It was his turn to hold up his hand to silence his father from saying anything as he continued, “Samuel and I had a good life growing up, no matter the circumstances. But it's also something that I long realized since before Yale. It's something I'll tell Achilles each time he asks me to join. I cannot devote myself to anything else because General Washington has my absolute loyalty already. I cannot guarantee loyalty to a Brotherhood that may ask me to betray someone I long trust and hold sacred to myself without coming into conflict with them.”

His father suddenly laughed lightly and Ben stared at him, puzzled, before Nathaniel shook his head, “Samuel said something along those lines the day he enlisted and brought his Lieutenant's commission. Except it was absolute loyalty to you, Benjamin.”

The wistful smile appeared back on his face, “In hindsight, I think he was jealous that you were allowed to choose your path and perhaps resented that I forced him to train as an Assassin before he truly knew the sacrifices it entailed. To him, joining the Continentals and joining you might have meant that he would be at least somewhat free from the Brotherhood's goals and ideals – though we hardly had any goals before Connor's presence. Maybe it was to protect you from whatever influences the Brotherhood might exert upon you, maybe it was for other reasons, but I do not doubt your brother's intentions. His loyalty was not to the Brotherhood, but to you.”

Ben drew in a sharp breath and stared at his father, stunned at the revelation. His older brother had what? At the same time he felt the same echoing pang earlier in his heart. Hearing that his brother had been so devoted to him to almost chase after him and sign up as soon as word had reached his family of his enlistment in the Continental Army. It certainly explained a lot about Samuel's actions when he had found out his brother had also enlisted and purchased a Lieutenant's commission. But to find out that it was because of some absolute loyalty to him? That touched him greatly. Even though Samuel was the older one of the two, he always followed him around, whether it was climbing trees, or even learning how to rifle with their father's guns. Granted, Samuel was the first one to learn by virtue of being the eldest, he always seemingly acted like Ben was the older one at times.

“I don't think Achilles realizes yet, but he probably soon will. Our family is known for its absolute loyalty to a cause, to a person, or even to an order whenever we put our bull-headed stubborn minds to it. I never realized where Samuel's was and thought I could direct his loyalty to the Brotherhood like I did. Little did I know, you already had his undying loyalty like General Washington has yours. The Brotherhood has mine, but I think at this juncture, there need not be any Tallmadges in the Order anymore,” his father said before getting to his feet and patted Ben gently on the shoulder, “get some sleep son...it will do you no good for you to be dead on your feet tomorrow or even worry about the Old Man's persistence. The problem you are puzzling out will more than likely resolve itself.”

The silence left in the wake of his father's departure was loud and broken with the occasional pop and crackle of the fireplace. Ben rubbed his eyes, feeling the scratchy dry feeling in them. His father was right, he needed rest and it was more than likely he was over thinking certain elements of the problem. For all he knew, it was his paranoia getting to him – the mounting frustration at events over the last few months reaching its peak. Washington would not defend himself against his detractors, Lee was a traitor, and his own incompetence and faults at not being able to control his agents was stressing him out. Adding to that was Achilles' request to join the Brotherhood and the fact that he had found out that Lee was a Templar. This latest incident with Henry being shot and someone found skulking outside the house was driving him mad with frustration and paranoia.

He rubbed his eyes again and stared into the fire. Even with his father's reassurance, Ben knew that he would not be sleeping tonight. Settling himself for a sleepless night, he leaned back against the high-backed chair he was sitting in and instead, let his thoughts wander.

* * *

The sudden high-pitched scream of a woman startled Ben as he snapped open eyes he did not realized had slid shut since his father had left the parlor. He was already up and moving, automatically grabbing his cloak and wrapping it around himself as he threw open the front door and ran out. He abruptly skidded to a stop at the horrific sight that was before him; the schoolhouse was on fire.

Ben's first instinct was to run to the stables. There he found a bucket that had been used for watering the horses and ran back out. He rushed to the well near his house and quickly pulled the rope to bring the cold, but unfrozen water from the bottom. At the same time, he looked up at the sound of the door slamming open and close and saw his father and several others hurrying out of the house, headed to the stables to pick up more buckets.

“Here!” he saw Duncan rushing towards him, holding two buckets and nodded as he filled his own and left the large pail on the side of the well for Duncan to fill the ones in his hands.

Taking the bucket, he ran as fast as he could towards the schoolhouse, mindful of the water inside. He could see the townsfolk already gathering, the men hurrying towards the schoolhouse with water pails of their own. Women and children were still rushing out, some into the outstretched arms of their parents while others huddled around the teachers. His steps slowed as he got closer to the burning schoolhouse. The flames had consumed the roof already and Ben knew in his heart that the large schoolhouse could not be saved, even with people still rushing back and forth, dumping snow and water on the flames in an effort to stave the fire.

“Major!” Ben turned to see Liam pushing his way through the crowd as he set his bucket down.

“Liam,” he greeted, noting the soot and sweat that covered the young man's face and clothes. There was a shine to his eyes and Ben thought it was probably from the horror at seeing his former schoolhouse burning as well as by trying to help with rescue efforts.

“Major, Sergeant Davenport's still in there...was saying something about rescuing his children or something-”

Ben immediately looked back at the burning building and pursed his lips. He knew John would never leave until the last child was rescued – it was similar to how he commanded his division, waiting until the last man had retreated or was the first to advance into the fray. The back of the schoolhouse would be the most likely place to retreat as he studied the flames and grabbed his bucket, hurrying towards the back.

As he ran through the tall grass and bramble, shying away from the incredible heat that was melting the nearby snow, he heard footsteps behind him. He turned to tell Liam to stay behind, but instead, saw that it was Duncan, carrying at least one bucket full of water with him.

“I saw you head back here-”

“One of my men is inside, that idiotic bastard,” Ben gritted his teeth as they rounded the burning building and to his relief, saw that the back had not been completely consumed by fire. The roof was definitely starting to smoke, but it seemed like most of the flames was eating the front of the building.

“John!” he yelled, cupping one of his hands to his mouth, “John Davenport!”

Duncan was silent beside him, but Ben caught an intense look on his face as he seemingly strained his neck towards the building. “I hear someone,” the man said after a few seconds and Ben tried to focus his ears towards the building, but heard nothing.

“Where are they-”

“No,” the older man's hand shot out and grabbed his arm as he shook his head, “I can pinpoint where they are, you cannot. I will go.”

“But-”

“Throw the water in as soon as I kick the door down,” Duncan said and Ben nodded reluctantly, as he grabbed his bucket and approached the door as Duncan readied himself to kick it down. He could see smoke already filtering out of the cracks and knew that they did not have much time to find Davenport.

“Now!” Duncan called out at the same time he heaved a heavy kick to the already weakened door.

Ben closed his eyes against the sudden burst of black smoke that shot out of the opening and held his breath as he threw the water blindly towards the open door. He thought he heard Duncan scramble through as the smoke stung his eyes, watering them and he coughed. At the same time, he accidentally inhaled a lungful of the black smoke and quickly stumbled back, waving his hand in an effort to clear the air. He cracked open his eyes as he tried to blink the involuntary tears from them, coughing again; there was no sign of Duncan or John as black smoke continued to pour from the doorway. He looked up to see that the fire had now started to spread down the back roof, quickly eating away at the dried wood, even with the small amount of packed snow on it.

Ben was so engrossed in watching for any sign that Duncan had found John and that John had found his children that he did not realize someone else had approached. It was only the familiar feeling of cold-hard steel of a pistol pushed against his the back of his head that he realized his initial gut feeling at been right. All of this, the shooting of his man and even this fire, it _was_ a trap.

“Put the bucket down and raise your hands up, Major. My compatriots would like a word with you,” Ben stilled at the voice that gave him the ultimatum.

John Davenport was never inside the burning schoolhouse. Instead, he was the one holding the pistol to his head. And the only 'compatriots' Ben knew of that was not the British, were the Templars – Sergeant John Davenport was a Templar.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Ben found himself being reluctantly herded beyond the schoolhouse and towards the more wooded area behind all of the houses that belonged to the teachers. “John, what ever they-”

Davenport made a quick shushing noise and dug the barrel further into the back of Ben's head making him fall silent. He continued to march across the snow, the crunch of packed snow mingled with crisp dried leaves underneath seemingly echoing loudly in the nearly silent woods. But he knew it was drowned out by the crackling roar of the fire consuming the schoolhouse and knew that no one nearby would be able to hear anything.; which meant no one in town or in the houses nearby would be able to come to his aide. All of them were at the burning schoolhouse, trying to do whatever they could to save it or help rescue those still trapped inside. He suspected that was what the whole plan was, to distract the town itself and lead him away from curious eyes.

And by God it worked. It worked so well that Ben knew he should have trusted his feeling earlier; that something was wrong and that he should have followed his instincts. Ben assessed his surroundings as he saw the small dots denoting people grow larger as they approached what looked like a small clearing. A frown appeared on his face as he saw that there were at least two people kneeling on the ground, a person holding dual pistols pointed at their heads. Another stood by the side, rifle held loosely in his hands as he stood at rest.

To his dismay, as they got closer, he realized that the two kneeling on the ground were Henry and Betsy Adamson. Henry was clearly still wounded, blood soaking through the bandages Dr. Regan had wrapped him up in. Betsy's eyes were red rimmed and tearing, though the two looked up as he approached.

“M-Major-”

“Quiet girl!” the soldier, dressed in rough green attire that was reminiscent of the Queen's Rangers, said harshly down to Betsy, cutting her off with a muffled whimper. Ben saw Henry's eyes track him with a seemingly bleary coherence, more than likely drugged with laudanum. His face was pale and his cheeks too bright to be rosy from the cold. The young man must have ran a fever during the night after the bullet had been taken out.

“Let them go-” he started.

“Shut up, sir,” John's pistol dug harshly against his head, making him grimace as he felt himself being pushed forward before the pistol settled in between his shoulder. “Oy, you, I've done what you asked now let my family go.”

Ben flicked a quick look back to see John's jaw set with anger as he glared at the one who was holding the rifle loosely in his hands. He realized that John had not betrayed him out of any sort of gain, but rather out of necessity. Whomever the two were dressed like Queen's Rangers, they had threatened John's family too, much like they had more than likely shot Henry and probably set fire to the schoolhouse. It felt eerily like when he was dealing with Newt, his brothers and cousin over a year and half ago.

“On the contrary, Sergeant Davenport,” the one holding the rifle took a step forward, “you are right where we need you to be. You _will_ continue to stay where you are, or else all I have to do is to fire this rifle into the air and your wife and your baby daughter will die.” He turned his gaze towards Ben and a small smile graced his craggy features. It reminded him of Captain Simcoe and the snake-like predatory look he always wore.

“So glad you could join us, Major Tallmadge. I will be remiss in introducing myself as a simple Mr. Welles,” the man said in a pleasant tone, tapping the barrel of his rifle in an absent manner. He gestured with a chin towards the one pointing pistols at Henry and Betsy's heads, “this is my colleague, Corporal Ames.” Ames flashed him an unkind smile as Betsy whimpered, the fabric of her dress bunched in her hands in fear.

“What do you wish of me?” Ben asked behind gritted teeth, trying to tamp down on the surge of anger he was feeling.

He wished there was a way to signal to Liam that he needed reinforcements, but knew that the young man – and more than likely also Alexander – were at the schoolhouse, trying to save it like the others. Daniel and Samuel were too far away in Farmington to be of any help. As long as this Mr. Welles had his rifle in his hand, he held John's family hostage. Ben flicked a quick look at how loosely it was held in his hands, trying to calculate if he could disarm the other man before his companion shot Henry or Betsy. He had to find a way to communicate with John holding the gun to his head that everything would be fine.

“My fellow compatriots would really like you to stop meddling in our affairs,” Welles said in a pleasant and amicable tone, as if he was simply discussing the weather instead of threatening him.

“Compatriots,” Ben all but spat, “not the Queen's Rangers, I'm presuming?”

“Told ya he's a smart one,” Ames spoke up and Ben saw Welles shoot the other man a dark look.

“And here we thought we were being clever,” Welles glanced down at his uniform and seemed to pick an imaginary piece of dirt off of it, “I suppose not having Robert Rogers here does seem a bit suspect.”

“I would have expected an ambush,” Ben replied, “though hostage taking is not above him.”

Welles made a humming noise of agreement as he nodded, “Yes, yes, but as I had said before, my fellow compatriots would really like you to stop meddling in our affairs.”

“And this is the warning?” Ben gestured with a quick flick of his hand and felt the gun shift against his head.

“Oh no,” Welles' smile was full of teeth, “this is not even close to a warning. This is just a simple execution.”

Before Ben could do anything Ames suddenly fired one of his pistols, making him jump a little. But the shot was not directed at him, and a second later, he saw Henry's body pitch forward lifelessly, a bloody hole through the back of his head. He could not stop the gasp that escaped from his lips and even sensed John's shock as the gun digging into his head wavered. Betsy's face was splashed with bits of blood and grey matter as she stared in mute horror at the body of her dead brother. Silence reigned in the clearing for a few seconds before Ben caught the moment when Betsy regained use of her faculties. Her fingers trembled as they touched her mouth, her eyes widened in abject horror-

“No, wait! Stop! Stop!” he shouted as he saw Ames about to shoot the pistol and held his hands out in an effort to stop him from shooting Betsy. “She's innocent! She's not a part-”

“She's a witness,” Welles cut him off softly, “and you dragged her into this yourself Major-”

“Please... _please!_ ” Ben had never thought to resort to begging, but he took a step forward, ignoring the push of John's gun into the back of his head to stop him from moving another step, “Please don't shoot her, okay? Don't...for the love of God, don't-”

His words stuttered to a halt at the sudden banging discharge of Ames' pistol going off. Betsy's chest suddenly bloomed red as she fell to the ground with a sudden sharp cry before falling silent. He blinked, knowing somehow that what he had seen, he should not be so shocked at, but at the same time, could not believe that it had happened. Betsy had only greeted him with a watery smile just hours ago in the middle of the night, had given her thanks for saving her brother. Henry had even survived Dr. Regan pulling out the ball, was looking to make a full recovery since he was so strong. The two were supposed to have survived the war, Betsy probably to be married to someone in town or nearby and raise healthy children. Henry was going to be like his father after he received his bounty, a prominent lawyer and open his own practice. The two had _futures_.

And to see both Adamsons lying face down on the ground, blood pooling a crimson stain upon the powder-white of the snow... Ben almost could not comprehend it. He could feel himself shaking a little, but as he felt the tears form in his eyes, he quickly banished it at the same time feeling the swooping _fury_ at what had happened. He instead, glared at Welles and Ames.

“Your quarrel was with _me_ ,” he said quietly, marveling inwardly at how calm he sounded when all he wanted to do was to take John's gun away from his own head and shoot them dead.

“We can hardly call them innocents now, can we?” Welles said, keeping his tone pleasant as he rocked back and forth on his heels, occasionally tapping on the rifle in his arms. “After all, they were associated with you and your unit.”

“What,” Ben stated flatly as the words rang familiar in his mind. His father's words about one of the tenets of the Creed echoed in his mind. _Stay your blade from the flesh of the innocent_. And Welles had said something eerily similar to that... It hit him as he realized who they and their 'compatriots' were.

Templars. Templars dressed as Queen's Rangers and more than likely a part of the British forces. The British somehow knew about him, maybe about his father's work as an Assassin? But that did not make sense...or had the documentation that had been stolen from Sackett's papers named him as the Head of Intelligence and perhaps Major John Andre was a Templar? But if he was, Ben was sure that Connor would have assassinated him by now, since Andre was more than likely the one who had turned Charles Lee to the British.

There was also another factor to consider, that the Templars did not know his familial association with the Assassin Brotherhood and simply had been ordered to kill him. But Ben did not put too much stock into that as he saw Ames calmly reload one of his pistols, his other one holstered to be reloaded later.

“Ah-ah,” Welles suddenly spoke up at the same time Ben heard John shift behind him, “please don't make this any harder Sergeant Davenport.”

“I won't kill him,” he heard his Sergeant rumble behind him, “you can't make me kill him-”

“Not even for your wife and child?” Welles tapped the barrel of his rifle as Ames snickered, still occupied with reloading his pistol.

Ben swallowed hard. He realized that his execution was more than likely to come by John's hand and darted a look to his side. He could feel the barrel of the pistol digging into the back of his head shake. He surmised that it was more than likely from rage and from fear and all of his animosity towards John and his betrayal fled from him at what they had forced his man to do. He wished Caleb was here...Caleb would know what to do – quick with his tomahawk and quicker with his words.

“Just what the hell did the Major do here-”

“Ah, no,” Welles held up a finger, waggling it back and forth, “you do not presume to pass judgment-”

“Judgment or not, Major Tallmadge doesn't deserve to be killed by you skulking assassins-”

The moment the cold metal of John's pistol moved from the back of his head Ben realized what he was going to do and was about to voice his protest when he found himself shoved to the side. At the same time he heard the echo of a rifle being shot behind him along with the report of a pistol. He heard John grunt as he regained his footing and grabbed the un-fired pistol in the man's hand, pulling down on the flintlock as he looked up.

Ames' fell to his knees, his fired pistol falling from lifeless hands. A neat hole decorated the middle of his forehead with a trickle of blood trailing it. He fell forward, dead even before he hit the ground. Ben's eyes darted to Welles who had stared in momentary shock before fumbling for his rifle-

He had his pistol up and fired at the same time he saw Welles discharge the rifle into the air. His shot struck true as Welles' head rocked back, the ball wedged right in-between the man's eyes and he collapsed sideways to the ground, also dead. A moment of silence, echoed loudly by the report of the guns going off, filled the clearing.

Ben lowered the still smoking pistol and glanced behind him to see who had shot the rifle. To his surprise, saw his father lowering his familiar Pennsylvania rifle, a grim look on his face. His father had killed Ames, after years and years of preaching as a Reverend and even saying that he was done with killing and war after his service in the Seven Years War.

A movement out of the corner of his eye, made him look down to see John, clutching his chest as blood poured out of it and he immediately knelt down next to his Sergeant. He clutched the man's hand at the same time John grasped onto the sleeve of his jacket, staining it with blood, but Ben did not care. “You did the right thing-”

“I-I know...c-couldn't let...bastards...” John struggled to speak as he choked and coughed, spitting blood out of his lips, “m-my family-”

Ben had almost forgotten that Ames had not readily pointed the rifle at him, but had rather shot it into the air. The signal to whomever was holding John's family hostage to kill them. “I'll make sure they're fine, I'll make sure-”

“P-Please...Major...I-It...was an honor...” John's hand suddenly fell away from his and the last bubble of breath left him as he died. Ben wanted to scrub furiously at the tears that threatened to pour out of his eyes, but instead, stood up and ran up the small hill his father had stood on to shoot Ames.

“Benjamin-”

“Give me your pistol,” he demanded and saw his father stare at him with a curious look, but handed over the pistol he carried by his side. Ben grabbed it before kneeling a little and pulling out the knife he had in his boot with his other hand.

“Ben what are you-”

“Davenport's family is in danger. Welles was shooting off a warning signal,” he replied curtly with a look at his father, before he turned and ran towards the tavern as fast as he could.

He heard the harsh crunch of snow under his boots, his breath coming in cold gasps as he drew upon his knowledge of the woods, shortcuts he had learned in his three years of living here. He leapt over bramble and snow cover logs, splashed through small streams and ignored the acrid smell of smoke and screams of those who were still trying to put out the fire at the schoolhouse. Finally, Ben careened into the town center and put on a burst of speed, the niggling sense that something was terribly wrong pushing him to go faster as he burst through the doors of the tavern-

Only to find Alexander Mayfield coughing rather violently into a bucket, Mrs. Davenport rubbing soothing circles on the young man's back as she held a small tin of water near him.

“That's it...take it easy...” she said quietly as Ben took in the scene before him. She looked up at his entrance and tilted her head in puzzlement. “Major?”

The cooing giggle of a baby made him turn to see Liam bouncing John's daughter in his arms, apparently taking care of the girl while Mrs. Davenport attended to Alexander. There was nothing to indicate that either were being held hostage.

“Major Tallmadge?” Mrs. Davenport called again and Ben belatedly realized he was holding his borrowed pistol aloft and lowered it. He sheathed his knife into his belt instead of where it usually was kept in his boot.

“Uh-”

“Alexander was trying to rescue someone inside and breathed in too much smoke. I was going to take him to the well, but Mrs. Davenport saw us out there and brought us in to sit down,” Liam spoke up before gesturing with a chin towards the weapons he had on him. “Is something wrong, Major? I can get my things-”

“Did anyone suspicious stop by?” Ben asked, ignoring Liam's question as he directed asked Mrs. Davenport.

“No, Major,” she frowned puzzled as Alexander coughed again into the bucket. “Was there supposed to be? My husband-”

Ben drew in a stuttering breath at the mention of John. “He...he thought he saw the person who set fire to the schoolhouse, ma'am...” he lied, and saw her stop her rubbing motions as she caught the quaver he tried to keep out of his voice.

“J-John...where-”

Ben opened his mouth and tried to say something, but nothing would come out. Finally, he forced himself to speak, “I'm s-sorry- They were armed and shot him-”

“No...no...” Mrs. Davenport's eyes grew wide as she suddenly sank down next to Alexander. He was acutely aware that Liam was staring wide-eyed at him at the news, still holding onto John's baby girl.

“I...I thought you should know...right away...” Ben finished lamely, wincing at the keen wail that emerged from her lips.

There had been no hostage taken at the tavern; which meant that Welles and Ames had bluffed their way into strong-arming John to hold him hostage. He wished John had known about that before he died. But it was too late...and Ben could only feel utterly helpless at what had happened.

* * *

Ben trudged up the small hill in the woods with a heavy heart. He crested over the ridge and stopped as he saw several people clustered in the area. John's body was in the process of being shifted onto the stretcher. Two were already bearing a stretcher with a body covered with cloth it down the hill. It was more than likely Henry's body as he saw the third one being lifted with Dr. Regan fussing over it. Ben hurried down the slope as he realized that Betsy was still alive, but stopped as he saw his father and Achilles talking with Mr. Adamson. All three looked up at the sound of his appearance before he saw his father speak a few words and move away, headed towards him.

“Benjamin-”

“She's still alive?” Ben asked, glancing beyond him to see Dr. Regan and the two stretcher bearers disappear down another small hill.

“Yes, but her wound is grave and serious. The ball went through her and Dr. Regan says she lost a lot of blood. If she survives the night and the next few weeks, she may recover, but I fear she may never recover from what she probably saw,” his father held a hand against his chest to prevent him from following them. Ben stepped back, head bowed at his father's words, suddenly feeling like a child in front of his father.

“It's my fault-” he began, but stopped as his father placed his hand on his shoulder and gripped it tightly.

“Benjamin, it is by the will of God that this has happened-”

“ _They were Templars_ ,” he suddenly hissed, the swooping fury returning momentarily as he jabbed a hand towards Ames and Welles' dead bodies. “Insomuch of their words, Father. They were-”

Ben stopped as his father suddenly embraced him tightly, a soothing sound issuing from his lips. He heard his voice rumble in his chest, “-They were going to kill you and I would have never allow that to happen. Never...”

He nodded against his father's embrace and felt his arms release him before stepping back. “Your vow-”

“Never,” his father repeated with an unreadable look, “I'd rather break my vow than to lose you. I will not lose you, not like I lost Samuel or your mother. Achilles and I speculate that those two men must have overheard you talking with the two of us yesterday and planned accordingly. They thought to get to you to get to us. They ambushed Duncan when he went into the schoolhouse, and coerced your man Davenport there, to distract you and ultimately kill you as a warning to us, to Achilles and indirectly to his apprentice Connor.”

“But-”

“Achilles told me that you think Charles Lee is a Templar. Have you given any indication to him that you side with the Assassins or have any affiliation with them?”

Ben thought rapidly about what had happened at Bridewell Prison. True he had defended Washington, but it was in the context of actually defending him from an attack, not anything associated with the Assassin Brotherhood. He was pretty sure Lee did not see Achilles in the crowd, nor witnessed him bumping into him before Connor's execution. “No, but-”

“And Connor already knows the other Templar leadership which are not within Washington's army,” his father cut him off gently, squeezing his arms in reassurance, “so there you have it, my son...”

Ben pressed his lips together, the sudden well of emotion nearly overwhelming him. He realized that his father was serious and the more he pondered his reasoning, the more it made sense. But at the same time, he realized that even if he had not been associated with the Assassins, he had come close to being killed by the Templars, just because he had apparently been spied upon talking with known Assassins.

“The Templars do not know of your lineage, Benjamin because they do not know of me. They only know you as who you are, Major Benjamin Tallmadge, the commanding officer of the 2 nd  Continental Light Dragoons. Your standing in their eyes is safe,” his father reassured him and Ben could not help a small tiny smile at the irony of the words. It echoed the same exact statement he had made to Abe regarding his standing as a Tory in Setauket.

“Ames and Welles?” he gestured to the two bodies dressed in green.

“We will take care of them after seeing if there are any intelligence upon their persons to pass along to Connor and the others,” his father said as he let go of his arms.

Ben sniffed and rubbed his nose, finally allowing the tears to appear in his eyes, “You know, it's amusing that in all of this, you'd think me to join the Brotherhood, no? I mean, to protect my men from this...killed in their own hometown even...”

“Your answer is still no, am I correct?” his father smiled sadly.

“If only to protect my men even further from retaliatory attacks by the Templars just by associating with Assassins...” he replied, running a hand through his hair, “it wasn't supposed to happen like this...”

“War never is,” his father replied sagely, “but at least I sensed something amiss enough to save you. It's something Achilles said was valuable to the Brotherhood and has save my life along with the lives of others more often than not. I am glad that it has not gone away and that I was still able to put my skills to good use.”

Ben could only give a watery smile back as his father clapped his hand on his shoulder and steered him to go back up the hill. In that instant, he knew that he could never voice to his father that he had that same skill, that same _sense_ of danger, that gut feeling that helped him avoid ambushes or the killing blow from others. Because if he voiced it, it would not only put himself in further danger, but become a beacon for those in both the Brotherhood and Templars that such things were passed down family lines. And as much as Ben loved his father, he knew that if he ever had family, he would have to protect them from the machinations of the Brotherhood and of the Templars; much like his father had done so to him. But he would do it outside of the Brotherhood's influence.

The Templars had proven to him that they were willing to go to great lengths for their never-ending war with the Assassins. And that made Ben even more driven to protect Washington from their machinations – now that he knew what to look for. The only question remained was, why? Why did they target him when they could have easily targeted his father or Achilles.

* * *

**Coda:**

 

He pretended to be engrossed in the latest news printed by the Continental papers, with the casual, lazy air of an officer off duty and enjoying some good port on a mild winter day giving way to spring. But in reality, watched the comings and goings of the camp like a predator. There was a certain person due to return within the last two days and while accounting for potential trouble on the roads as well as inclement weather, he made it his mission to see if said person would actually return.

In reality, he was hoping to see just four of the seven that had set out for Boston before the New Year, returning early March. Two of them were supposed to report to him discreetly, but he would be content in just seeing four of seven. Just as he was about to go and re-read the same passage one more time, he heard the thunder of hooves across the campgrounds and looked up.

The smile that had been on his face became a little fixed at the sight of _five_ instead of the four he had been expecting. And the fifth one, the one in the _middle_ of all things was still wearing his fop of a dragoon helm and looking hale and _healthy_. Not even sporting a single wound. He watched, dropping his smile as they rode by and stopped near the farmhouse that housed the Commander-in-Chief and the senior Generals.

“Thought you'd be stuck in Boston with all of the snow we're getting here, Tallmadge,” he called out with a touch of arrogance in his voice. Inwardly, he was seething. Those _idiots_ had failed. They had utterly failed even when he had clearly told them what route Tallmadge and his men would be taking on their way back from Boston. It had been provided to him by the man he had in that group.

“What, couldn't find a wench in the city to warm your bed? Play your _hornpipe_?” he echoed Tallmadge's words back to him as he stood up and sauntered over. “Came back because you prefer-” He held up his hands in a non-threatening gesture as the man stomped over to him with a murderous look on his face.

“The cold must have addled your wits to not even recognize a jest, _Major_ ,” he said mildly as he saw Tallmadge's eyes dart over to the new golden epaulettes on his shoulders. They denoted his new rank of Colonel instead of his previous position as Lieutenant Colonel and he was rightly proud of them.

“Congratulations on your promotion, Colonel Bradford,” Tallmadge replied with an edge to his voice and a toothy smile that he did not like, “I'm sure your competence was well deserved under such an illustrious and battle-hardened General. Now if you'll excuse me...”

Tallmadge dismissed himself with the briefest nod of his head, leaving William Bradford standing there, staring at his back as he headed into the farmhouse. Those _idiots_ had failed, even after he had provided them with the semblance of green to pretend that they were Queen's Rangers. He shot a look at his man who was in the process of dismounting and saw him made a motion to indicate that even he did not know how Tallmadge had survived the assassination attempt. Bradford gritted his teeth together in anger as he decided he would make a report to Lee about this. His only saving grace was that it seemed Tallmadge had no indication that he had a mole in his group, nor was he aware of who had orchestrated it.

It was perhaps time for a new plan.

 

~END~

 


End file.
